


Tristan & Isolde

by mystivy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When King Mark, Queen Isolde and the knight Tristan come to Camelot, Arthur learns what true love really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tristan & Isolde

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime after 2.04, Lancelot and Guinevere, but before the events at the end of the season. The quotations in the text are from Malory (1868 ed.). The Mark, Tristan & Isolde I picture in this story are from Tristan & Isolde (2006), but you are free to imagine whoever you choose.

**_Prologue_ **

_“There be within the land but four lovers, that is Sir Launcelot du Lake and queen Guenever, and Sir Tristram de Liones and queen Isoud.” (Isolde, Book VIII, chap. xxxi)_

_La Belle Isolde did not here speak the truth. There were two more lovers in Camelot, and this is their story. It is told here as the lovers themselves might relate it, had they yet returned from Avalon._

  
_~8~_  
  


_And then Merlin was bound to come to the king. (Book I, chap. ii)_

Autumn in Camelot is multihued: the leaves fall red and gold, fluttering in the breeze across the castle’s white ramparts; the deep green smell of the forests rolls in with the wind, and the brown earth, dormant for the coming winter, spreads around the castle walls. The early morning is grey and silent, and Merlin pauses at an open window on his way to Arthur’s chamber to breathe in this moment of autumnal peace. He feels a particular oneness with the land at times like this. He feels the magic in his fingertips crackle like dry twigs in a fire, responding, he knows, to the changing seasons, the never ending cycle of the land itself. He feels as if all the earth is still at this moment, waiting, waiting for him to—

“Merlin!” comes Arthur’s voice, echoing down the corridor. 

Merlin shakes his head and smiles. “On my way,” he mutters, trotting towards Arthur’s door as fast as he dares, the tray in his hands already jostling a little too much for comfort. He manoeuvres the tray in the door and Arthur is already sitting at the table, tousled and shiftless, his eyes still soft with sleep.

“Is it too much to ask that you don’t stop for a rest on the way to my chambers in the morning, Merlin?” says Arthur as Merlin comes into the room. “Or is the weight of my breakfast just too much for you?”

Merlin places the tray on the table, with bread, a fat leg of chicken, eggs and cheese, and ale in a cup. “Wouldn’t want it to spill, now, would I?” he says. “You’d complain even more than usual.” He returns Arthur’s glare with a smirk, and then turns away to straighten the bed and lay out Arthur’s tunic for the day, brushing it with the back of his hands to smooth out the creases.

“King Mark arrives today,” says Arthur, leaning back in his chair while he eats.

“I heard about him,” says Merlin. “Just married, isn’t he?”

Arthur nods. “To an Irish princess. Goodness knows what she’ll be like.” They share a grim look. “Still,” continues Arthur, “she’s at least ensured an alliance between Mark and her father, King Donnchadh, and that’s good news for us.”

“Since we’re allied to Mark,” says Merlin.

“Very good, Merlin,” says Arthur, standing up, his chair scraping against the floorboards, and heading towards the washing basin. “I see your rudimentary grasp of politics is improving.”

Merlin grins, pouring Arthur’s washing water into the basin. He keeps his eyes low and warms it up, just a little, with a whispered word.

  


_~8~_

_Of the wedding of King Mark to La Beale Isoud; anon they were richly wedded with great nobley. But ever, as the French book saith, Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud loved ever together. (Book VIII, chap. xxix)_

King Mark and his new queen arrive in the late afternoon. The King himself is on horseback at the head of his knights, and his lady travels in a covered carriage. The sun is low in the sky as she alights, Mark taking her hand to help her down, but there is enough sunlight left in the day to reveal the wealth of Mark’s entourage. Gold and jewels glitter in the light, from Mark’s crown to the jewellery adorning his queen, and his knights wear golden rings. The hems of their garments glisten with golden thread. Arthur has to admit that it is impressive to see such an entourage arrayed in the courtyard of Camelot, though outwardly he maintains his air of royal indifference. Merlin is managing a little less in the way of indifference, staring wide-eyed at Cornwall’s courtly pageantry. Arthur nudges him and rolls his eyes, making him stop staring because he’s too busy glaring at Arthur, and Arthur considers it a win.

Uther steps forward to greet Mark, clasping his forearms and offering him welcome to Camelot. Mark is clearly impressed at the scale of the castle, its great towers and fortified keeps, all in clean ashlar, giving the impression of impregnable elegance. He leans close and says something low and private to the king, making Uther swell with pride. Arthur is impressed at this Mark already. He looks like a strong man, broader than Uther and somewhat shorter, and his hair is still dark and thick, cropped very short, with the merest hint of grey at his temples. He is younger than Uther, though he carries himself with equal nobility, and he seems calmer, less volatile. He is quick to smile.

When he turns to extend a hand towards his queen, he is regal and solemn. His voice rises as he introduces her.

“My most honoured King Uther, please welcome to Camelot my wife, the lady of Cornwall, Queen Isolde.”

The entire castle seems to hush as the Queen takes her place beside Mark, and she finally raises her travelling veil.

Arthur’s breath catches, and a murmur ripples around the assembled court. He glances again at Merlin, who suppresses a smile at him in acknowledgement. This woman, Isolde, is not the rough Irish warrior princess they were expecting. She is beautiful, slim and blonde, her skin smooth and pale, and her hands as delicate as any queen of Albion. But this is all secondary to her regal bearing, her assurance as she stands in front of the greatest court in the land.

Uther takes her hand and bows. “We welcome you to Camelot, Lady Cornwall,” he says. “We will celebrate your arrival to our court with feasting this evening, and tomorrow the great tournament begins in your honour, and that of your King.”

“I thank you,” replies Isolde, her voice ringing out loud and clear in the courtyard. She sounds like Morgana, accented and yet entirely natural, as if she had grown up speaking the language of the courts of Albion. “And I trust that some day Castle Dore can extend similar welcome to you, my lord Uther.” 

Mark smiles broadly. Arthur is close enough to see the look in his eyes, the complete and utter adoration he feels for his lady. It is a private look for such a public occasion. This is a love match, then, he thinks. A rare thing for royalty. 

He does not allow himself to seek Gwen’s face in the crowd, and instead turns to Merlin as the court follows Kings Uther and Mark and Queen Isolde into the castle.

  


_~8~_  


_Then was there great justs and great tourneying, and many lords and ladies were at that feast, and Sir Tristram was most praised of all other. (Book VIII, chap. xxix)_

The feast begins at sundown. Merlin, quietly hating the feast-clothes he is forced to wear, stands beside Gwen.

“At least you look alright in it,” he says, when Gwen tells him to stop fussing at his brass buttons and the silly cap Arthur gleefully made sure he wore. The high table is full this evening, as Mark and Isolde take their places beside Uther.

“Thanks,” says Gwen dryly, smoothing down her red velvet skirt.

The collected companies of Cornwall and Camelot fill the hall to its capacity, and a great din rises from the crowded tables. The kitchen is frantically trying to keep up with the rate at which Mark’s hungry men eat, and Merlin and Gwen find themselves often pressed into service around the hall. Once the food has been eaten, however, and jugs of wine and ale have been deposited on each table, the hubbub and bustle die down, and Merlin and Gwen once more stand behind Arthur and Morgana at the high table.

“Prince Arthur,” says Mark, calling Arthur’s attention from along the table.

“Yes, my lord Mark,” replies Arthur companionably. Merlin can see the faint flush of red in his cheeks from the wine, though he has been conscientiously frugal in his drinking.

“I hear you are a great knight,” continues Mark. “And a favourite to win the tournament. Your skill with both sword and lance is known even in Cornwall.”

Arthur smiles what Merlin thinks of as his royal smile. It’s genuine, but at a distance. “You do me honour, my lord,” says Arthur, graciously. “But I have yet to test that skill against your knights.”

“Indeed you have,” replies Mark. “And I have here one of the finest knights in the land. He has been fostered with me for many years, and there is none to equal him in Cornwall.” Mark gestures to a young man sitting adjacent to the high table. “This is Tristan of Lyonesse.”

Merlin had noticed this young knight during the feast, conversing only intermittently with his fellows, the pallor of sadness in his youthful face. Tristan is about the same age as Arthur, but as dark as Arthur is fair, and seemingly as melancholy as Arthur is content.

“Sir Tristan,” says Arthur, inclining his head.

“Highness,” replies Tristan. He bows his head more deeply than Arthur.

“Tristan has defeated all of this company you see here in tournaments with sword and lance,” says King Mark, his voice suffused with pride in his accomplished knight. “And he defeated the challengers of this land and all of Ireland when he won me my fair queen.” He turns to Isolde, who smiles thinly at him, though Mark’s smile is broad and genuine.

Morgana moves as if to say something, but Merlin sees Arthur press her hand beneath the table.

“A fair prize for so excellent a king,” says Arthur. “Sir Tristan, I look forward to testing my skill against yours in the coming tournament.”

“And I against yours,” says Tristan, and though Mark doesn’t seem to notice, there is a hollowness to his voice.

“What do you think is going on there?” whispers Merlin to Gwen.

“What is always going on,” she says, her eyes on Isolde, suddenly sad and limpid as if she feels some kind of deep sympathy that Merlin cannot fathom. “Not even a woman of noble birth can choose who to love.”

“I meant with Sir Tristan,” clarifies Merlin.

“I know,” she replies, and from the way she looks at him, Merlin gets the distinct impression that he’s missing something significant. 

 

The morning dawns dewy and grey, but unlike the morning before, this morning is not silent. It is the first day of the tournament. The servants of Camelot rise before daybreak to make breakfast for the entire court and the guests of Cornwall, and Merlin has to battle his way through the kitchens to fetch bread and meat for Arthur. He manages to steal a round of cheese and a jug of ale, as well as some apples. This morning he does not dawdle in the bustling corridor, but makes his way straight for Arthur’s chamber and shuts the door gratefully behind him. He sighs in the silence.

Arthur has already washed and is pulling on his tunic. “Ah, there you are,” he says. “Put it on the table, would you? I’m starving.”

Merlin lays out Arthur’s breakfast. “It is so busy out there, you’re lucky I didn’t spill this at least three times on the way here,” he says earnestly.

“No,” corrects Arthur. “You’re lucky, or I’d make you wear that hat again tonight.” He goes to swat Merlin’s head as he falls into his seat, but ends up just ruffling his hair instead.

Merlin squints at him and pinches an apple. “So you all set for today, then?” he says.

“Have you polished my armour?” says Arthur, biting into a hunk of bread.

“Yes,” says Merlin. “It’s ready in your pavilion, shiny and waiting.” He grins.

“Then yes, Merlin,” says Arthur with exaggerated patience. “I am all set for today.”

“Good,” says Merlin, pocketing the apple and busying himself with Arthur’s rumpled bedsheets. They’re still warm, and he smoothes them down carefully. “What do you think of Queen Isolde, then?” he says, tucking the edges underneath the mattress.

Arthur raises a contemplative eyebrow. “Well, she’s not exactly what I was expecting, I must admit,” he says.

Merlin punches Arthur’s pillows back to fluffiness. “King Mark seems happy.”

Arthur’s glance flickers to Merlin and then away. “Yes, he does,” he says, quietly. “I suppose sometimes things just work out.”

Merlin pauses and looks at the prince. He is caught in a slanting ray of morning sunshine, his hair lit up yellow and his face made regal in the golden light. “I suppose they do,” he says, his gaze lingering a moment or two before he returns to his work.

 

_Merlin said, Here shall be in this same place the greatest battle betwixt two knights that was or ever shall be, and the truest lovers, and yet none of them shall slay other. (Book II, chap. viii)_

Merlin and Arthur make their way down to the tournament field after breakfast. Camelot is festooned in fluttering pennants and banners that proclaim the colours of King Mark and the Pendragon. The tournament field is splendidly arrayed, and though he has seen jousts and tournaments in Camelot before, it’s obvious to Merlin that Uther intends this one to be particularly impressive. The stands for the crowds are ringed around with food and drink sellers and ramshackle stalls that sell all kinds of wares, from carved wooden models of knights on horseback, each one painted with the shield of a knight present for the tournament, to toy tin swords beaten into shape from scrap by gypsies to sell to the children. There is already a sense of bustle and business about the place, though the jousting will not start for another hour at least.

Arthur’s pavilion is right at the edge of the field, opposite Tristan’s pavilion on the Cornwall end of the arena. Merlin sets out a chair for Arthur that affords him an excellent view of the field, and sits himself down on a three-legged stool right beside him. He has Arthur’s helmet in his hands, polishing the steel to a shine. There are a few men on the field slotting the frame into place to form the lists for the morning’s jousting, and the blows of their mallets echo around the stands. The clamour builds around them as the people make their way in from the city to take up their places. They cheer wildly as Uther enters the Royal Stand, followed by King Mark and Queen Isolde. The queen is resplendent in green, the fabric of her dress embroidered in patterns that Merlin has never before seen, the endless knotwork of the Irish fashion traced in gold thread around every hem, and tripartite knots adorning the skirt of her dress. Around her neck is a solid gold torc. On the other side of Uther sits the Lady Morgana, with Gwen by her side. Merlin catches Gwen’s eye and she gives him a little wave. He grins back at her.

“Who’s up first then?” he asks Arthur, as soon as the crowds have filled the stands.

“Sir Pellinore,” says Arthur. “He’ll be jousting against one of Mark’s men.”

“When do you reckon you’ll be up?” says Merlin, looking up at Arthur and squinting against the sunshine.

“This afternoon, I imagine,” says Arthur contemplatively.

“You think you’ll beat Tristan?”

Arthur looks down at Merlin. “You’re full of questions this morning.”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s just, he doesn’t look—”

“Merlin, I strongly suggest you do not insult our guests,” advises Arthur loudly, cutting him off. He leans down towards Merlin and puts a hand on his shoulder as if to berate him further, but continues in a lower voice. “And anyway, looks can be deceiving. I should be able to judge the general standard of Mark’s men during the day, and then I’ll know what to expect.” Arthur smiles and gives him a sly wink.

Merlin grins in response. “Right,” he says. “Good plan.”

“Thank you,” says Arthur dryly, sitting back up in his chair. “I live for your approbation.”

Merlin blithely ignores him and watches the bustle around the pavilions as the first knights prepare to tilt.

 

It is a long morning. There is blood on the field by midday, and one of Camelot’s knights has sustained serious injuries from a shattered lance, the shards driven between the plates of his armour above his collar bone. The crowd groan in horror as Sir Lucan is dragged to his pavilion and Gaius called for.

“Mark’s knights are good,” says Merlin.

Arthur’s face is grimly set. “They are,” he says. “It won’t be an easy joust.”

“Try not to end up with half a lance stuck in your neck,” says Merlin.

Arthur levels a look at him. “Thank you, Merlin,” he says, “for that invaluable advice.”

“Here to help,” he says. It makes him slightly sick to actually contemplate the possibility that Arthur might be so horribly injured. He reaches for Arthur’s helmet and begins to polish it again, even though it is already blindingly bright in the sun.

Arthur looks at him oddly. “I think it’s polished enough, Merlin,” he says. 

Merlin looks at his own reflection in the steel. “Right,” he says, putting it down again.

“Perhaps you might fetch my midday meal,” suggests Arthur. “Since it’s midday, and I’m hungry. And then fetch my horse from the stables. I want him saddled up before too long.”

“No problem, Sire,” says Merlin, and sets off to weave his way through the pavilions. He’s halfway to the castle’s kitchens when Gwen catches up with him.

“Merlin!” she says. “What did you think of this morning?”

Merlin grins at her. “It was brilliant, wasn’t it?” he says. “Apart from Sir Lucan and the broken lance, that was not so good.”

“Right, no, that was bad. I hope he’s alright,” says Gwen, with concern. “I think Gaius is with him.” 

“I should probably go and see how he’s is doing, in a bit,” he says. “I’ll bring him some food.”

Gwen smiles warmly. “Good idea,” she says. “But what does Arthur think?” she continues. “Does he think he’ll beat Sir Tristan?”

Merlin shrugs. “Arthur thinks it might be difficult,” he says. Gwen’s face falls. “But he’s sure he’ll manage,” Merlin hastens to add.

Gwen’s expression clears again. “Good. I mean, of course. Arthur is the best knight in the land.”

“Right,” says Merlin. They are getting near the kitchen now, jostled by servants and pages. “Don’t you have to go and help Morgana?” he asks, fending off the sharp elbow an overenthusiastic squire as he tries to push through to the front.

Gwen shakes her head, laughing a little at the eager boy. “No, she’s going to eat with Uther and King Mark and the lady Isolde,” she says. “I thought I’d help you fetch Arthur’s meal.”

“Thanks,” says Merlin. He’s happy to have the company.

Gwen stifles a giggle as another page pushes by. “What am I, invisible or something?” says Merlin crossly, hopping a little when the boy stomps on his foot.

“Come on,” she says, taking Merlin’s arm sympathetically. “I know a short cut.” She pulls him off to a narrow doorway in the castle wall and leave the crowds behind them.

They manage to get to the kitchens and fetch what they need before the rush. Soon they have cold venison, half a fish pie, several pickled eggs and a pear for Arthur’s meal, as well as a flask of ale. They carry the food to Arthur’s pavilion, carefully avoiding any reaching hands that might want to relieve them of the prince’s fare, and Merlin flips back the tent flap to allow Gwen enter.

Arthur is inside, and he turns when Gwen and Merlin enter. “Gwen,” he says, when he sees her.

“Right,” says Merlin, looking from Gwen to Arthur, as they smile at each other. He pats the pouch of food he’d grabbed for Gaius. “I’m going to check how Gaius is doing. Back in a bit.” He quickly places Arthur’s food on the table in the centre of the tent and takes the flagon of wine from Gwen. She seems to have forgotten she is carrying it.

“And then,” he says, while he backs out of the pavilion, “I’ll saddle up your horse.”

Arthur nods. “Excellent, you do that,” he says.

  


_~8~_  


_“And this damsel is the most valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or yet that ever I could find.” (Arthur, of Guinevere, Book III, chap. i)_

Though they are in the midst of clamour and bustle, a certain quiet seems to fall over the pavilion when Arthur and Gwen find themselves alone.

“Be careful, Arthur,” says Gwen.

Her concern for him warms his heart, and he smiles. “I always am,” he says.

“No, you’re not,” she says, but she says it fondly. “You are always fierce and brave. Never careful.”

“You know me too well,” he says. It feels strange, almost intimate here with Gwen in the soft light of the pavilion. He can feel the tentative hope that rises in him at times like this, when they are alone, and half welcomes it, even if he knows it cannot last.

“If you can’t be careful,” says Gwen, her eyes liquid brown and earnest, “then you must win.”

“You know, it’s customary for a lady to give a knight a token, if she desires him to win,” replies Arthur. “Have you no token for me?” He feels playful and a little reckless, unafraid.

“Sire,” she says, and she half laughs at him, shy and amused, but there is something a little sad about her, too.

“Guinevere,” he says, low and intimate. “I would be honoured if you did.” He is no longer playful. He remembers the press of her lips, that one mad moment when he found himself kissing her. He half thinks of kissing her again.

She looks torn, confused, and suddenly he realises that perhaps he has pushed her, pressured her. But then she sighs and smiles up at him, clear as sunlight. “Of course I have,” she says, untying a yellow ribbon from her hair. “Wear this. Even though you cannot show it, wear it and win.” She ties the ribbon around his wrist, where it will be hidden by his greave.

“Now I can’t lose,” says Arthur.

  


_~8~_  


Merlin visits Sir Lucan in his tent, where Gaius assures him that the knight needs no magic to live. Then he heads to the stables and takes his time helping the groom saddle up Arthur's stallion, his flanks draped with the Pendragon coat of arms. When he returns to Arthur’s pavilion, Gwen is just turning to leave. She blushes as she passes him and looks away, but she can’t help but smile. Arthur is softly smiling, too.

“Your horse is outside,” says Merlin. He speaks quietly, reluctant to interrupt Arthur’s thoughts.

“Good,” says Arthur absently. He is looking at the ribbon tied around his wrist, tucking the edges underneath his greave. “I can trust you, I know, Merlin,” he says, his fingertips still touching the token.

Merlin nods. “Of course, Arthur,” he says. “With anything.”

Arthur looks up and blinks at Merlin, his mind still elsewhere. “Thank you,” he says. He claps Merlin on the shoulder as he leaves the pavilion.

  
_~8~_  


_And therewithal king Arthur dressed his shield and his spear, and Sir Tristram against him, and they came so early together. (Book X, chap. i)_

The evening sun is raking low and pale across the lists by the time it is the turn of Arthur and Tristan to mount up and tilt. The crowd falls to a hushed silence as the two great challengers face off across the field. 

The smell of sand and sawdust fills Arthur’s nostrils, and his charger is fretful beneath him, sensing the tension in the air. Arthur has to rein him in until the flag drops and he is off at a gallop, charging towards Tristan. He can barely see through the slit in his helm, but he can see enough; he aligns his lance with Tristan’s breastplate, and when he hits he feels it and hears it at the same instant, a mighty crash as his lance splinters and Tristan is almost unhorsed, clinging onto his reins. The crowd roars, and Arthur throws back his visor, standing on his stirrups and acknowledging the cheers. He canters back to his end of the field, where Merlin grins up at him, passing him a new lance.

The second pass is Tristan’s. The shock of the lance against his breastplate leaves Arthur stunned and breathless, and he just manages to remain seated. He waits for pain to manifest itself, in case some splinter has made its way between the plates of his armour or the seams of his chainmail, but to his relief the pain is limited to the dull ache of a bruise. He breathes again, only now registering the roar of the crowd as Tristan acknowledges their grudging but sporting cheers.

One more pass, and the day will be decided. The faces of the crowd are a blur to Arthur as he returns for the last time to his end of the lists.

“Are you injured?” shouts Merlin at him over the din.

Arthur raises his visor. “No,” he shouts in return. “Just my pride. Pass me the lance.”

Merlin hands it up to him, ensuring that Arthur has a good grip. The crowd are roaring and stamping, cheering on their prince against the Cornwall challenger. 

For the final time, the flag drops and they’re away. Arthur grits his teeth, his seat secure, his lance lowered and steady. Tristan is nothing but a glimmering shape in the last of the sunlight through the slit in his visor. Arthur doesn’t flinch, he holds steady, and the crash of his lance splintering against Tristan’s armour is audible even above the roar of the crowd. He sees them rise to their feet in cheers of delight, and reins his horse to a stop. He turns, dropping the shaft of his broken lance and throwing back his visor. Tristan lies on the ground, unhorsed and defeated, though already pushing himself upright without any real injury. Arthur stands in his stirrups and shouts out to his people in his victory. He rides, one hand aloft in acknowledgement, around the perimeter of the lists. He looks to the royal stand, where his father and Morgana are on their feet, clapping and cheering. Even Mark and Isolde appear impressed. And there is Gwen, smiling and waving to him. He holds his right hand over his left, where the ribbon remains tied under his greave.

And then, as he returns to his pavilion and once more lets his gaze fall over the crowd, there, beneath a hood pulled low but not quite low enough, Arthur sees the face of Lancelot.

 

He dismounts to a grinning Merlin, who takes the reins of his horse while shouting something joyful at him. But Arthur hears nothing but clamour, and Merlin looks at him strangely before leading his horse to the water trough. Arthur enters his pavilion, aware that in a moment he will be called on to join the other victors of the day in front of the royal stand. He throws down his gauntlets and unbuckles his left greave, and runs his fingers along the soft fabric of Gwen’s ribbon. Though Gwen herself gave it to him, he feels, suddenly, that he has no right to it, that he should not have asked it of her. Gently he unties it and folds it away.

Merlin slips into the tent behind him. “Arthur?” he says, uncertainly.

“Merlin,” he replies, his voice grating a little in his dry throat. “Am I being summoned back to the field?”

“Soon. The knights are gathering.”

“Then I’ll do the same,” says Arthur.

But Merlin puts a hand on his arm. “Arthur,” he says, his eyes searching and curious. “You won!”

“A joust, Merlin, that’s all.”

“Still,” says Merlin. “You don’t look at all happy about it.”

Arthur sighs. “I am. Delighted.”

“Right. Obviously you’re delighted.”

“I’m being practical,” says Arthur. “It’s the first day of a three day tourney. I haven’t won it yet.”

Merlin looks at him appraisingly. For all his idiocy, Arthur cannot help but notice, now and then, a peculiarly astute glint in his manservant’s eye. “Doesn’t have anything to do with Lancelot in the stands, does it?” says Merlin.

“You knew he was there?” replies Arthur.

Merlin bites his lip. “I saw him earlier,” he says, shrugging. “Didn’t look like he wanted to be seen.”

Arthur stares at him, his guileless face steady under Arthur’s glare. “In future, Merlin, if you see a knight of the kingdom anywhere in Camelot without due honours being paid, you will tell me.”

Merlin nods quickly. “Right, will do. Wasn’t sure he was still a knight, actually.”

“His knighthood was never rescinded,” says Arthur. “We must treat Lancelot with the honours accorded to any knight of the realm.”

“Absolutely, you’re totally right, my fault, should have mentioned it,” babbles Merlin. Arthur knows when Merlin is just placating him, but appreciates it all the same.

“Now find him and tell him I expect him at the feast tonight,” he says. It pains him, but Arthur knows it is the only honourable course of action now that he has seen Lancelot. “And Merlin,” he says, just as Merlin is leaving the tent.

Merlin turns, expectant. “Yes, Sire?”

“Ask him to come and see me in my chamber before the feast.”

“Are you sure?” asks Merlin, looking doubtful.

“Yes. Conduct him there yourself.”

“Alright,” says Merlin.

“And Merlin?” says Arthur, once more preventing Merlin from leaving the pavilion. Merlin’s face is carefully blank, but Arthur knows why he did not tell him that Lancelot was in the crowd, and he can see in Merlin’s eyes that he understands. That shared knowledge seems to linger in the air between them. “Nothing,” he says quietly, because in the face of all of that, there seems to be little to say.

He heads out to the field to be presented to the royal stand with the other tournament contestants. His heart aches when he looks at Gwen, and though his efforts at joy are heartfelt, he feels they fall short of the mark.

 

_Here may ye hear the nobleness that followeth Sir Launcelot. (Book VIII, chap. xxviii)_

When Arthur arrives at his chamber, Lancelot is staring into the fire, and Arthur is vaguely relieved to find that Merlin hasn’t disappeared on some errand or other. Merlin gives Arthur a long, weighty look as he enters the room, with a little quirk of a reassuring smile that makes Arthur want to knuckle his head and swat at him fondly at the same time. He quashes the urge to do either and turns towards the fireplace.

“Lancelot,” he says, as Merlin begins to unbuckle his armour.

Lancelot turns to face the prince. His cloak discarded, he is wearing the same clothes he wore in the castle of Hengist. His eyes shine in the flickering light of the fire.

“Sire,” he says, deference audible in his gentle voice.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “What brings you to Camelot?” he asks.

“In truth, to see the jousting,” says Lancelot. He looks slightly abashed. “I know this Tristan, and I know you, great warriors both. What man would not see this tourney if he could?”

Merlin lays his armour on the table and begins to unlace his chain mail. Arthur searches Lancelot’s face for signs of subterfuge, but finds none. “Why do you disguise yourself?” asks Arthur. “You are always welcome here.”

“My lord,” replies Lancelot, his gaze no longer steady. He seems to search for words. “I did not wish my presence known here.”

“You didn’t want Gwen to know.”

Lancelot appears anguished, but Arthur cannot fault him for it. “No, Sire, I did not.”

Merlin removes Arthur’s mail and lays it over the back of a chair. Arthur loosens the ties of his tunic and pulls it over his head as Merlin pours water for washing into a basin. He feels the sweat and dirt of the day on his skin where it has caked under his armour, and turns towards the table, holding out his arms as Merlin takes a cloth and begins to wash it off. Merlin grimaces in sympathy when he sees his chest, where Arthur’s ribs and sternum are mottled with bruises from the crash of Tristan’s lance, and even though he is delicate and gentle with the cloth, Arthur winces a little as Merlin runs his fingers over them. Lancelot averts his eyes, his gaze returning to the crackling flames.

“So, what did you think of the joust?” asks Arthur.

“It was outstanding,” says Lancelot, appreciatively. “You have trained your knights magnificently.”

“Thank you,” says Arthur. “How would you like to be among them again?”

“Sire?” says Lancelot. He seems a little wary, confused.

“You are an honourable man, I think, Lancelot,” says Arthur. “A good knight, and a good fighter.” 

“I certainly try, Highness,” he replies.

“We are down a man,” he says. “Sir Lucan is badly injured. He will live, but he will not fight in a tournament for some time. I would be honoured to have you in my company.” He feels Merlin’s hand grow still on his back, the cloth pressed against his skin. He feels the pressure of his fingertips through the rough fabric. “Will you take Sir Lucan’s place?”

“Sire,” replies Lancelot. He seems hesitant and uncertain. Arthur isn’t sure, for a moment, that he has done the right thing in asking Lancelot to join him, until Lancelot simply bows and says, “I would be honoured to counted among your company. But,” he adds, with some doubt. “I’m not sure your father shares your views on my right to be considered a knight of Camelot.”

Arthur smiles grimly. “Leave my father to me,” he says. “We have no other fighter like you. Laws can be rewritten, but tournaments cannot be replayed. I suspect his pride will win that battle.”

“In that case,” replies Lancelot, “I accept your offer, and will gladly fight for Camelot in the tourney.”

Arthur acknowledges this with a nod. “Merlin?” he says. Merlin has finished washing him and hands him a drying cloth.

“Yes, Sire?” replies Merlin.

“Fetch Lancelot something to wear to the feast, will you?” He glances at Lancelot’s clothes, stained with wear and adventure. Fitting raiment for a knight errant, but not for the table of the Pendragon. “You can take one of my tunics if you have nothing else,” says Arthur.

“You are most generous, Arthur,” says Lancelot, and Arthur knows that he is speaking of more than a tunic.

 

_“I am Merlin, and I was he in the child’s likeness.” (Merlin, to Arthur, Book I, chap. xviii)_

The moon hangs low and yellow in the sky and there is a chill in the air. “We’ll have the first frost in the morning,” says Arthur. He is standing by the window, awaiting the horn that will call the company to the feast. 

Merlin is banking the fire. “It’s getting colder,” he says.

Arthur looks out over Camelot in the moonlight. Smoke rises from the huddled houses around the castle wall, and the crowds in the taverns spill out into the streets, drinking and laughing around braziers and in firelit doorways. Tournaments bring crowds to the city from the surrounding lands, and Arthur loves the sound of the city teeming with life.

“Mace tomorrow?” asks Merlin. He’s finished with the fire, and wanders over to join Arthur at the window.

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Be sure to have my shield polished.”

“Yes, Sire,” says Merlin. Sometimes, when no one else is around, Merlin says _Sire_ as if it’s some familiar name, something soft and private, not like a formal address at all. 

“And find Lancelot some armour,” he says. Sometimes Arthur orders him around just to hear him say it.

“Yes, Sire,” says Merlin again, and Arthur has to bite back a smile, but it quickly fades when he looks at Merlin. He looks pensive, almost worried.

“What is it?” he asks, and it doesn’t even cross his mind not to care.

“Are you sure about Lancelot?” asks Merlin, earnestly. “I mean, with Gwen and everything?”

Arthur crosses his arms, sighing. “I can’t keep them apart,” he says heavily. He returns his gaze once more to the window. “Even if I could, what kind of man would I be to bind her to me, if it is Lancelot she truly loves?”

Merlin leans against the wall, sighing in sympathy.

At that minute the horn blows, calling them to the feast, and Merlin looks away. Arthur shakes himself from his reverie. Merlin holds out Arthur’s crown, placing it on his head.

“Where’s your hat?” says Arthur.

Merlin looks horrified. “You wouldn’t make me, not again,” he says.

“I might,” replies Arthur, but at Merlin’s outraged look of betrayal, he relents. “Alright,” he says, laughing and giving him a playful punch in the arm as he turns to leave for the feast. “You don’t have to wear formal attire tonight, but two days from now, when I win this tournament, you better turn out looking like the smartest servant in the entire castle. If that’s even possible,” he adds.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “ _If_ you win,” he says, and for that Arthur has to punch him again. “Ow,” says Merlin, trotting after Arthur out the door and down the corridor.

  
_~8~_  


_And then there were great feasts made and great joy. And many great lords and ladies, when they heard that Sir Launcelot was come to the court again, they made great joy. (Book XII, chap. x)_

The feast is as busy as before, with a great din filling the hall as the knights and ladies of the court discuss the day’s fighting. It is generally agreed that while Cornwall acquitted itself admirably, Camelot had the day with the Crown Prince’s victory over King Mark’s champion. 

After the meat has been carved and each noble and knight has been served, King Mark stands, his goblet aloft. “A toast,” he declares. “To Camelot, victors on this first day of tourneying!” A great cheer rings out from the people of Camelot, with a chivalrous toast in response from Cornwall. “Though, I should warn you, my lord Uther,” continues Mark, having drunk deep of his ale. “I doubt not that Cornwall will be victorious tomorrow!” With that, it is the turn of Cornwall to raise the roofbeams with cheering, while the knights of Camelot call good-natured threats and predictions across the hall.

Uther, Merlin notices, looked more relaxed than he has ever seen him, joining in the general merriment of his men, though his eye glints competitively when he and Mark clash goblets in the toast. Arthur looks resplendent in courtly red.

Once more Merlin and Gwen are set to serving during the feast, and in the general chaos of servants bustling to and fro, Merlin is run off his feet around the hall. As soon as one lord or lady is sated, another wants something, and he loses count of how many times he runs into the steaming, smoking din of the kitchens and back to the great hall. Gwen is pouring wine and ale for the gathered companies.

Merlin is waiting on Arthur when Gwen first meets Lancelot. Lancelot sits with Sirs Kay and Gawain at a table adjacent to the top table, and already Merlin can see him watching Gwen as she moves along the line of men, exchanging friendly smiles and comments with some, pouring silently for others, until she reaches him. Her face stills and their gazes lock together, and it seems to Merlin that time has stopped for them. Lancelot stands slowly and inclines his head to her. They cannot tear their eyes from each other and yet they cannot speak in the midst of all the court, but there is something soft and smiling in their shared gaze. Gwen finally looks away, her eyes dropping, and she takes Lancelot’s goblet and fills it with wine. She passes on wordlessly, Lancelot gazing helplessly after her.

And at the high table, Arthur watches. His shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh.

“How is your man who was injured today, my lord Arthur?” asks Mark across the table.

Arthur does not appear to hear until Merlin nudges him and directs him to King Mark. Arthur shakes himself a little and smiles, though Merlin can see the smile is forced. “Sir Lucan is badly injured, but he will live,” replies Arthur.

Mark nods with understanding. “Such is the peril of the joust,” he says. “And do you have another to take his place, or is Camelot one man down tomorrow?” Mark grins at that, as if already counting the day a victory.

“We have found a replacement,” replies Arthur. He glances at his father as he gestures towards Lancelot. “Sir Lancelot du Lac, one of the finest knights I have ever known.”

Uther frowns and glares at Lancelot as he stands. Silence falls over the hall, the din of conversation dying away as the companies of Camelot and Cornwall notice the newcomer. Lancelot throws a nervous glance around the hall and then bows deeply towards the high table. “I am honoured to fight for Camelot and for Prince Arthur,” he says, “so long as the king, my lord Uther, permits it.” He remains in a half bow, awaiting Uther’s judgement.

Merlin watches Uther’s jaw clench. Arthur smoothly continues with his introduction. “Sir Lancelot has saved our kingdom,” he says pointedly. “He single-handedly killed a griffon that attacked our people a year ago.” Mark looks duly impressed.

Uther glares at his son, but already Merlin can see that Arthur has won this round. Uther stands, his goblet raised, and speaks. “Indeed he did,” he says. “And we welcome his timely return to Camelot.” The King drinks deep, and the company follows. A few drunken cheers break out throughout Cornwall’s company, and Camelot’s knights follow suit, as they recall the champion who defeated the griffon when all others failed. Lancelot seems taken aback by the cheering, but he smiles and raises his cup to the company as he resumes his place among the knights of the kingdom.

Arthur claps and cheers with the rest, though he falters just a little when he notices Gwen’s broad smile at Lancelot when his eyes seek her out in the crowd. It is just then that Merlin sees Tristan, still as pale and melancholy as he was the night before, look calculatingly from Lancelot to Gwen to Arthur.

Tristan shares a heavy, meaningful look with the Lady Isolde. It suddenly dawns on Merlin what Gwen might have meant the night before.

 

Merlin returns to Arthur’s chamber with him after the feast. “What do you think of Sir Tristan?” he asks, as he stokes up the fire against the night’s frost, already crystallising on the windows.

“Hmm,” replies Arthur, leaning against the table and folding his arms. “He seems sort of—”

“Sad? Pathetic? Kind of drippy?” suggests Merlin, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder.

“One of those, yes,” says Arthur. “In fact, I think for once you’re entirely correct. All of them.”

“I mean, who sits and mopes like that at a feast?” asks Merlin, shaking his head.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Someone who lost his tilt today?” he suggests.

“Good point,” Merlin concedes.

“But it’s not just that, is it?” says Arthur, looking at Merlin curiously.

“How would I know?” he replies, trying to sound innocent. He puts down the poker and turns to undress the prince.

“Merlin,” says Arthur in a voice that suggests his patience is thin.

“Seriously, I don’t know anything,” says Merlin, fiddling with the ties on Arthur’s tunic. He knows it’s no good, though; at this close range, Arthur can always see when he looks shifty.

“Merlin, you’ve heard servant chatter, haven’t you?” says Arthur, holding his hands over his head as Merlin strips off his tunic. “What are they saying in the kitchens?”

“Nothing!” replies Merlin, shaking his head vigorously and doing his best impression of a man without guile. He turns to the bed and lays out the worn tunic, taking uncharacteristic care with folding it.

“Out with it, Merlin,” says Arthur. “What have you heard?”

“I haven’t heard anything,” protests Merlin. He can feel Arthur’s glare on his back, and falters a little. “At least not really,” he adds, shrugging.

Arthur circles around and looms over him, backing Merlin up against the bedpost until his bare chest is almost pressed against Merlin’s tunic. Merlin considers the tactic profoundly unfair. “Then what is it?” says Arthur. 

Merlin sighs. “Gwen, last night,” he says. “She said something about women falling in love or something. Or possibly not falling in love. I had no idea what she was on about. But then I saw Tristan look at Isolde this evening at the feast, and Isolde look at Tristan, and it looked like…”

Arthur stares at him, realisation dawning in his face. “It looked like Sir Tristan is in love with Queen Isolde,” he says.

“Yes,” says Merlin.

“And Mark has no idea,” continues Arthur, pieces seeming to slot into place. He steps away from Merlin and begins to pace the length of the bed, frowning thoughtfully.

“Doesn’t look like it,” says Merlin.

“And Tristan sits there, pale and forlorn, sneaking glances at his king’s lady whenever he thinks that Mark is not looking,” says Arthur, warming to the theme.

“Yeah, he does,” replies Merlin. “That’s pretty sad, when you think about it.”

Arthur’s expression turns to one of disgust. “Sad?” he says. “It’s pathetic, and it dishonours Sir Tristan, as well as King Mark.”

“Do you think he and the queen are, you know?” asks Merlin, wiggling his eyebrows and picking up Arthur’s tunic.

Arthur considers this. “No,” he says. “What knight would cuckold his lord? And what lady would allow it?”

Merlin remembers Gwen’s words. “A lady in love?” he suggests quietly.

Arthur scowls. “What lady would fall in love with a sickly knight over a good king? Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” he says.

“Right, you’re absolutely right, of course,” says Merlin, as he puts away Arthur’s tunic and remembers the look on his face when he saw Gwen behold Lancelot.

When he turns around, Arthur seems distant, lost in thought. He is standing by the bed, the soft glow of candles illuminating his face and the light of the flickering fire catching in his hair, rendering it luminescent in the low light. It would usually leave Merlin a little helpless for a moment or two, catching sight of a half-undressed Arthur in the low evening light, but this evening there are those dark, angry bruises on Arthur’s ribs and across his chest from the breaking of the lance against his breastplate. Merlin feels, rising in his own chest, his habitual sense of a deep protectiveness of Arthur, as if his very nature rebels at seeing him so hurt. He spreads out his hand under the guise of reaching to help Arthur with his breeches. “Hælan,” he whispers under his breath, and he watches as the bruises fade, just a little. Just enough to prevent them from hurting Arthur in the next day’s duel. He unlaces Arthur’s breeches and pushes him gently back onto the bed to slide them off.

He sets the breeches on a chair and glances at Arthur, whose fingers absently trace the shape of the fading bruises, but he does not seem to have noticed their lessening. He lies back and pulls the covers over himself while Merlin blows out the candles.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” calls Arthur, as he reaches for the door. His voice is soft and drowsy.

When Merlin turns back to him, there is a certain darkness in Arthur’s eyes that Merlin cannot fathom. “Night, Arthur,” he says, and turns away, drawing the door to a close behind him.

  
_~8~_  


_“And as for my lady dame Guenever, were I at my liberty as I was, I would prove it on you or upon yours, that she is the truest lady unto her lord living.” (Lancelot, of Guinevere, Book VI, chap. iii)_

After breakfast the following morning, Arthur dons his armour and heads straight to his pavilion by the field, with Merlin trotting beside him. Arthur has ordered a squire for Lancelot, as well as a new flag for his tent. He can see it now, a white griffon sewn against a black field. A hurried job, but a good one nonetheless.

Amongst the pavilions they meet Gwen. She has her cloak wrapped around her against the morning chill.

“Guinevere,” says Arthur. He feels his throat a little constricted, strained, none of the easy familiarity of the day before left in him.

“My lord,” she replies, and she seems different, too. She’s smiling, radiating an almost palpable sense of quiet happiness. “Morning, Merlin,” she says, cheerfully.

“Morning,” says Merlin, looking from Arthur to Gwen with a calculating eye. “Right,” he says. “Well, I’d better see to… the thing. In the pavilion. So I’ll see you later, Gwen.” And with a grin, he is off. Gwen looks at him oddly, and Arthur represses the urge to fling a greave at his head.

“So,” he says, turning back to Gwen. “You’ve been to see Lancelot?” he asks. He pitches it as a casual question, but he feels his own voice unnaturally tight in this throat, making it sound more like an interrogation.

Gwen looks a little nonplussed. “I brought him food from the kitchens,” she explains.

Arthur nods. “Right,” he says. “Of course. Well, I am very glad he is here for today’s tournament.”

Gwen smiles again. “I think it’s wonderful that you offered him Sir Lucan’s place with your knights,” she says.

“Yes,” replies Arthur. “Lancelot is a very promising knight. He defeated the griffon, and of course, he—” Arthur loses his bearings for a moment, but quickly rallies. “He could have rescued you from Hengist without my help.”

“You know that’s not true, Sire,” says Gwen, warmly. “None of us would have escaped without you.”

“Well,” says Arthur, shrugging lightly, though he cannot help smiling a little. “And of course, the people of Camelot will love him, I have no doubt. The children will be playing with little toy Lancelots in no time.”

Gwen laughs at the idea, and it gladdens Arthur to see it. “I don’t think he’ll know what to make of that,” she says. “He finds a pennant and a servant strange enough.”

“He’s a humble man,” is all Arthur says in reply. Though the easy and familiar way she talks about Lancelot makes Arthur’s heart ache, he cannot feel any petty envy when he sees her happy.

She fixes him then with a look, her laughter fading into a warm and genuine smile. “Good luck today, Arthur,” she says.

“Thank you, Guinevere,” he says, quietly. It is a private moment, just between the two of them, in amongst the bustle of the pavilions.

He watches her as she walks away. She turns around as she leaves, smiles at him once more, and then she is gone.

  
_~8~_  


_“All my great deeds of arms that I have done, I did the most part for the queen’s sake, and for her sake would I do battle were it right or wrong.” (Lancelot, of Guinevere, Book XIII, chap. xx)_

There are braziers set about the pavilions to stave off the autumnal chill in the air, and Merlin is warming his hands over the banked coals when he sees Lancelot emerge for his round. Lancelot seems unused to having a squire and is not sure exactly how to speak to the boy. He ends up patting his head gently before pulling on his greave. The boy smiles happily and a little shyly, and hands Lancelot his mace.

Arthur nods as Lancelot strides past him into the field. The lists have been dismantled and a space constructed for mace combat. It’s a tough day, tougher than jousting, and the crowd are fired up to watch long bouts of desperate fighting. Camelot and Cornwall are neck and neck, and there are only a few rounds left.

Lancelot takes to the field opposite Sir Andred of Cornwall. He is a wiry man, light on his feet even in full armour. Lancelot parries a few blows to take the measure of him.

Merlin leaves the warmth of the brazier to watch the fight beside Arthur. “What do you reckon?” he says, as Lancelot holds his ground under Sir Andred’s onslaught.

Arthur watches a moment longer before replying. “Hard to say,” he says, noncommittally.

“He looks good to me,” says Merlin, as Lancelot surges forward, landing a few well-aimed blows on Andred’s shield, beating him back towards the limits of the fighting ring. The Cornwall crowd, made up of the servants and train attendants that travelled with the court, combine their efforts to raise a cheer for Sir Andred, though their numbers don’t make up even a quarter of Camelot’s cheering crowds.

Arthur says nothing, just watches the fighting, his eyes narrowed. Lancelot loses the advantage momentarily and stumbles on his back foot, but quickly regains the upper hand, his mace smashing down on Andred’s shield and breastplate with mighty force. It’s not long before the battle is his, and he is holding aloft his hands before the cheering crowds. He looks almost bashful, thinks Merlin, unused to such adulation. He thinks of the man who refused to take the credit for defeating the griffon, and he cheers all the louder. Arthur grasps Lancelot’s hand in congratulations as he leaves the field, and Merlin cheers and shouts some more. Lancelot glances back at him with a grin.

When the cheering dies down, Arthur looks at Merlin with a cocked eyebrow. “Is everyone around here besotted with Lancelot?” he asks testily.

“Well, he’s nice,” says Merlin. “Did you notice the way he doesn’t just shout at his servant and call him an idiot all the time? You could learn something from him.”

“You could learn a lot from his servant,” retorts Arthur, swatting him across the back of his head. “See the way he waited patiently for Lancelot to return to his pavilion? Being properly subservient, without any complaining at all?”

“Fine, I won’t cheer for you, I’ll stay nice and quiet, just like him,” says Merlin. He flicks up the flap to the pavilion as they duck inside as the next two knights prepare for battle. “But you’ll miss me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” he says. “I long for the day you won’t be around to distract me.” He takes up a cup of spiced wine and drinks a draught, and passes the cup to Merlin.

Merlin drinks too, and feels the spiced wine heat him up. “Cheers,” he says. “And if I distract you it’s only because I’m such an attentive and supportive servant.”

“Attentive!” scoffs Arthur. “I don’t know how you define ‘attentive’, but that is not what you are.”

“I’m terrifically attentive!” protests Merlin. “Look!” He hands Arthur back the last of the wine.

There’s something in Arthur’s eyes as their fingers touch against the cup, something that seems to respond to the charge that flickers over Merlin’s skin at the touch, that seems to reach out, just for a second, and bridge the distance between them. And then Arthur turns away, drains the wine cup, and places it on the rough-hewn table in the middle of the pavilion.

“I’d better get ready,” he says, and Merlin can’t be sure if there is a certain thickness to his voice.

“Right,” replies Merlin. “I’ll check your armour.”

One by one, he checks the buckles that strap the plates onto Arthur’s body, and for the first time, their physical proximity seems something strange to Merlin, seems something truly intimate, here in the dim pavilion, shielded from all other eyes. As he checks the fastenings on the breastplate, he can feel Arthur’s breath against his cheek. Merlin looks up at the prince, their faces suddenly close. Arthur seems thoughtful, and he is frowning slightly, as if he’s just thought up a new idea and is wondering how it might work. Merlin clears his throat.

“Good luck,” he says, and he can’t help it if the words come out just a little strangled.

And then Arthur leans forward, as if it is something familiar, something they’ve done a thousand times before, and kisses him. It does not last long, it’s little more than a warm, soft press of lips, the cold fingers of Arthur’s gauntlet curled around Merlin’s arm. And then he stops, and Merlin has to catch his breath as he pulls away. They stare at each other, eyes wild, hearts thumping.

“Mace,” says Arthur, breaking the silence, and he turns abruptly and leaves the pavilion.

 

The fight is a mess. Arthur does not acquit himself poorly, but Tristan is focused and surefooted and, after a long, gruelling battle, he wins. Arthur feels battered and exhausted, his limbs protesting at every step he takes off the field, as Tristan rejoices in his victory in front of the royal stand. The crowds of Camelot cheer him, but cheer their tired prince too, calling his name until he ducks into his pavilion and leaves the glory of the field to Tristan.

Merlin stands there, pale and petulant. “That wasn’t my fault,” he says, pointing at the field.

Arthur frowns at him. “What are you talking about?” He drops his shield and mace with a clang. “How could it be?”

“You kissed me first!” says Merlin defiantly. “I know you’ll find a way to say it was my fault. It wasn’t. It was you, with your eyes, and the way you were standing there, and breathing!”

Arthur tries not to smile. Merlin is animated and gesticulatory, and Arthur feels it like a tonic to his weary bones. “Breathing?” he repeats.

“Yes! Breathing!” replies Merlin. “Don’t try to deny it. And then you kissed me, not the other way around, and anyway, why would kissing me make you lose a fight? That’s totally ridiculous!”

“Yes, it is rather,” says Arthur, casually flinging down his gauntlets on the table. “I’d like to think I’m a better knight than that.”

“Of course you would,” agrees Merlin. “And you are. A better knight than that. One kiss, what could that do?”

“Are you going to help me out of my armour, or continue contemplating the effect of a single kiss on my combat skills?” asks Arthur blithely.

Merlin looks at him, faintly confused. “Armour? Right, armour,” he says, and he begins to unbuckle the plates. Arthur makes sure to breathe on him a lot, just to see him blush.

 

And yet, once his armour is oiled and put away in the armoury, and Merlin has come to his chamber to remove his chainmail and prepare a bath, it seems a little less funny. Merlin is quiet, apparently lost in his thoughts, and Arthur himself is still uncertain what possessed him to kiss Merlin, though to his own surprise he does not find himself regretting it.

Merlin removes Arthur’s mail and places it over a chair by the table. He then returns to remove Arthur’s tunic, and Arthur can see him flinch every time his fingertips graze skin.

“Was it so terrible?” he asks, as Merlin folds the tunic with his back to Arthur.

“What?” asks Merlin without turning around.

“Kissing me. A lot of servants would love to, you know,” he says.

Merlin wheels around as if to answer him, outraged, but stops, faltering when he sees Arthur standing half naked in the middle of the room. At first Arthur feels flattered, but Merlin’s face does not betray desire. He looks shocked. Arthur looks down at his own chest, and sees that he is mottled with bruises where Tristan’s mace had come down hard against the seams of his armour.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “This happens with mace combat.”

“Does it hurt?” asks Merlin. He looks almost afraid, tentatively reaching out a hand to touch the darkest bruises but drawing it back at the last moment.

“Yes,” replies Arthur truthfully. He moves his arms experimentally and feels an ache in his joints and a tightness between his ribs. 

Merlin sees him flinch and pushes Arthur around to see his back in the firelight. Arthur lets him. “Oh,” says Merlin in a small voice. “That must hurt a lot.”

“A bit,” says Arthur. 

“You should take a bath,” says Merlin.

“Well, I had planned to,” says Arthur, beginning to undo his own laces. He sits on a chair by the table and Merlin eases his breeches off, taking extra care, as if Arthur’s body has suddenly become something vulnerable. He seems focused, all of a sudden, too concerned with Arthur’s injuries to be thinking still of the kiss. He hovers over Arthur as he gets into his bath—still deliciously hot—and begins to soap Arthur’s back without Arthur even having to complain about him not doing it.

The water is bliss. Arthur can feel the heat seep into his bones, especially where Merlin has a wet cloth pressed into Arthur’s shoulder blades.

  
_~8~_  
  


Merlin pours a healing spell into Arthur’s skin. He feels it well up when he looks at Arthur’s injuries, so he closes his eyes and controls the flow—not too much, not so much as to give him too significant an advantage in the next day’s combat, but enough to stop Arthur’s muscles tearing when he hefts his broadsword. Merlin sets the limit at a good physician’s treatment, giving Arthur no healing that Tristan may not receive if Cornwall’s physician is as good as Gaius, all the while glad he does not have to call Gaius to the room.

Because these are his favourite times, when it’s just him and Arthur shut away from the eyes of the court. When the evening is closing in but he has not yet lit the candles, when the firelight is the only light in the room, and when Arthur is sleepy and content. And that’s when Merlin tips Arthur’s head back against the wooden back of the bathtub and kisses him. It is not chaste like last time, it is soft and open-mouthed, compliant and a little more searching. Arthur raises a wet hand and threads his fingers in Merlin’s hair, drops of water running down Merlin’s neck, but he does not pull away. 

But then— “Wait,” says Merlin in a strangled voice, right against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur draws back. “What?” he whispers in reply. His lips are pink and swollen, his eyes sleepy and satisfied. 

Merlin shakes his head. “The feast. You have to get ready.” 

Arthur allows his hand to fall from Merlin’s hair back into the water. “Right,” he says, sighing and pushing himself out of the bath.

 

The feast is even busier than the night before, with Cornwall’s company in high spirits, having won the day. When Merlin gets a chance to notice, he sees Gwen pouring wine for Lancelot, while Lancelot smiles abashedly, as if embarrassed that he should be waited upon.

As for Arthur, he is in fine form, regaling the high table with stories of adventure and battle. Even Tristan seems to have cast off his customary melancholy, and now and then even smiles. Uther is listening to his son with pride, every so often thumping King Mark’s back at a particularly dramatic point in the story as if to specifically call his attention to Arthur’s bravery or ingenuity in battle. Mark is in his cups and laughs uproariously at Arthur’s every joke.

Merlin catches himself smiling wistfully now and then, and tries to shake himself out of it. The fact that he can still precisely remember the sensation of Arthur’s mouth opening beneath his renders this difficult. Gwen looks at him curiously once or twice during the evening, but Merlin just gives her a quick smile and pretends he hasn’t just been thinking about kissing Arthur in his bath.

As the feast draws to a close, it is Tristan who supports a listing Mark as he makes his way to the chamber he shares with Isolde. The queen follows close after, her cheeks a little reddened with wine and her smile for Tristan secret and promising.

Arthur calls him over with a gesture.

“Merlin,” he says quietly. “Why don’t you discreetly ensure that King Mark is lodged in his chambers?”

Merlin frowns. “I think they know the way,” he says.

Arthur glares at him meaningfully. “I rather wonder if some of Cornwall’s royal company are a little unsure about where exactly they should be going,” he says, an edge of implication to his voice.

“Ahhh,” says Merlin, understanding. “I see what you mean. Leave it to me.”

So Merlin trails the king, his queen and his best knight at a discreet distance, now and then melting into the shadows that flicker in the corners no torches can reach.

He sees Tristan and Isolde help a sleepy, drunk Mark into the royal guest chambers. And a few minutes later, he sees them emerge again, checking the corridor this way and that before crossing to the door to Tristan’s chamber. As Cornwall’s best knight, he is accorded almost royal honours and shares his bed with no one.

Tonight, realises Merlin, he will share it with Isolde.

 

Arthur listens, stony-faced, when Merlin relates what he saw. He leans a hand on the mantle over the fire and stares into its flames.

“So they carry on their affair under Camelot’s roof,” he says. Merlin can see his jaw clench and his knuckles turn white.

“Looks like it. Mark must be out of it,” he says.

“Mark is a fool,” spits Arthur. “Tristan is a traitor and Isolde is faithless.”

Merlin approaches a little closer to the fire. “They’re in love,” he says, gently.

“Love,” repeats Arthur, with scorn. “Sneaking around behind a king’s back, while he looks like a man who can’t even keep his household in order, let alone a kingdom.” He shakes his head. “If that is love, then I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

Merlin smiles softly at him. Many things about Arthur make Merlin feel weak with affection for him, and his raw and honest sense of honour and duty is one of those things. “Love doesn’t have to be anything like that at all,” he says, and if he is revealing more than he meant to, he doesn’t care.

Arthur looks at him, his eyes bruised and tired in the firelight. He is about to say something, some throwaway jibe in their usual back and forth, but when he catches sight of Merlin’s face, he falters and remains silent.

“Anyway,” says Merlin, retreating again towards the door. “Anything else this evening?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, that’s all.” He is frowning speculatively.

“Right,” replies Merlin. “I’ll be off then. Early start for the sword fighting tomorrow.”

Arthur nods. “Indeed. See that you’re not late.” He says it as if by rote, his mind on something else altogether, his eyes lingering on Merlin. 

“When am I ever?” replies Merlin, reaching for the door. “See you bright and early.”

“Good,” says Arthur. “And Merlin,” he adds, just as Merlin is about to leave. Merlin pops his head back around the door. “Thank you.”

Merlin holds his gaze for a few seconds. “It’s what I’m here for,” he says, and flashes a smile before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

 

_All the commons cried at once, “We will have Arthur unto our king.” (Book I, chap. v)_

The final day of the tournament dawns, and Merlin wakes early to polish Arthur’s vambrace and chainmail and leave them down to the pavilion before breakfast. The armoury is busy these mornings, full of the squires of both Camelot and Cornwall, but Merlin stakes out a space in which he can clean the plates of the vambrace, bringing the steel to a perfect shine and examining it for any points that might be weakened in battle. The sight of Arthur’s dark and angry bruises is still vivid in his mind.

The final day of the tournament is a holiday in Camelot. The entire town seems to have packed the stands to overflowing, and many who look like they’ve come in from the outlying villages stand in the fenced-off sections between the banked seats. Traders call their wares from their stalls, and some sling trays in front of them and make their way through the crowds, hawking trinkets or bread or pies of suspicious origin.

Merlin watches as Arthur walks among his people, greeting them, some even by name. Children jump around him, calling for his attention, and turn shy when he grants it, and young men and women alike light up when he looks at them and holds out a hand in greeting. The older citizens cross their arms and look on him with pride, as if he was their own son, as if his greatness were a reflection of his people. This, thinks Merlin, is the thing that Arthur understands though his father does not. 

A great cheer goes up from the crowd as Uther appears, hand raised high. “This is the final day of the great tournament between Camelot and Cornwall,” he calls out, his voice ringing clear around the hushed stands. “And so it is fitting that today is the greatest test. Today the knights of Camelot and the knights of Cornwall will test their skill with the sword.” Cheers rise up, as the crowds stamp their feet and chant for Camelot. Uther smiles broadly and holds up his hands. He shouts above the din: “Let battle commence!”

The fighting begins. For all the cheer of the morning, it is a vicious day. The knights are all skilled in fighting with swords in heavy chainmail and vambraces, but they can find their way through the mail to their opponents flesh, too, and even though the tournament is a friendly one, the morning does not pass without a number of injuries, one or two worryingly serious. The crowd hisses at the sight of blood on the field, and cheers encouragement for any knight bleeding. Midday comes and goes, and the fights rage on. Arthur is busy after every bout, tending to his knights and ensuring that Gaius attends to their wounds, whether superficial or deep.

As the sun dips in the sky, it is Lancelot’s turn to take to the field. Merlin and Arthur check over his vambrace, ensuring that his young squire has strapped it on correctly. Arthur examines the heft of his sword and judges it well balanced and strong.

“Fight well,” he says to Lancelot, placing his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “You’ll beat him. He’s light on his feet, but you’re both light and strong. You’ll win.”

Lancelot nods in thanks and, when the clarion calls him, strides out onto the field.

It is another hard bout. Lancelot is today facing Sir Dinas, who is agile and fast, but lacks Lancelot’s strength in the heft of a sword. To strike him, Lancelot must move as fast and stand his ground. Over and over again they strike blows against each other, and the clash of their weapons is heard even above the great din of the crowd. Neither knight concedes an inch, and they seem locked in an interminable stalemate, each blow caught on a shield or deflected by a vambrace, until they are both weary and impatient for victory.

Finally Sir Dinas slows a little, his feet no longer as sure under him, and Lancelot can gain the advantage. It is as if he is filled with a second wind, and does not relent until Dinas collapses to his knees and yields.

Lancelot, the victor, staggers back heavily, his energy sapped now that he must no longer fight. The crowd rise to their feet, the syllables of his name a chant that echoes around the arena. Uther and Mark both stand and raise their cups to Lancelot.

  
_~8~_  


“Come on,” says Arthur, once he has seen that Lancelot is unhurt and has returned to his pavilion. “One more bout until mine. We must check my vambrace.” He nods his head towards the tent and they both duck inside.

Merlin reaches to check Arthur’s buckles, but Arthur bats his hands aside and takes hold of his arms. And then he kisses him. He kisses him deeply, open mouthed, with a touch of desperation. Arthur feels Merlin acquiesce in his arms. He slides his hand up till he is holding Merlin’s head with one hand and pressing his back with the other, crushing Merlin against him. Merlin is making little whimpering noises, his arms wrapped around Arthur’s body, his fists bunched in chainmail. The kiss goes on and on, and Arthur has no idea what might be happening outside of this moment, this taste, this sensation of Merlin against him, because he is lost in this.

And then, once more, Merlin pulls away. “No, stop,” he says, his face crumpled into a sort of pained grimace and his voice thick and stifled. He pushes himself out of Arthur’s arms, though Arthur won’t entirely let him go.

“What is it?” asks Arthur. He’s panting a little, but he tries to hide it. “Afraid you’ll make me lose again?”

Merlin looks indignant. “Okay, first, I did not make you lose, I thought we agreed that. And second,” he deflates, his indignation turning to something more sincere, something bruised. “Second, why are you kissing me? Why now, after all this time?” he says.

Arthur looks away, hands on his hips, grasping to pull together the threads of this realisation, and the words to convey it. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, you’re a terrible servant. And you’re annoying, and ridiculous. And yet…” He looks at Merlin, and can’t help the strange feeling that the harder he looks, the more he himself is revealed. “I like that you’re around. I’m glad you came to Camelot. I know it means I’m some kind of idiot to actually like putting up with you, but I can’t seem to help it. Perhaps it’s an illness.”

Merlin looks very grave. “Or some kind of mental affliction,” he suggests. 

“Are you impugning the sanity of your prince?” says Arthur, trying to sound outraged, but he can't help the smile that keeps threatening to break through.

“Not at all,” replies Merlin, shaking his head innocently. “Personally I think you’re perfectly fine.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “Do you, now?” he says.

Merlin rolls his eyes, and Arthur is forced to kiss him again. It is a brief kiss, just a taste, before pulling back. “Does that answer your question?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Merlin, looking at Arthur with a serene kind of happiness. Arthur feels it, too, the ridiculous sort of deep contentment that he has come to associate with Merlin. They hold that moment between them for the length of a heartbeat, of two. 

And then Merlin shakes his head as if to clear it. “You’ll miss your bout if we don’t get a move on,” he says.

“Right,” says Arthur, taking up his helmet and heading out of the tent.

 

_“And I promise you faithfully that I shall all the days of my life be your knight.” (Tristan to Isolde, Book VIII, chap. xii)_

There is a great fanfare when Arthur and Tristan take the field. The tournament has been perfectly evenly matched, and victory comes down to this fight. Arthur and Tristan will, between them, decide whether Camelot will emerge victorious, or Cornwall.

The final clarion sounds and they begin.

At first it’s nothing but a game as they toy with each other, gauging each other’s skill as each knight strikes a blow or holds it off with his shield. It is an arduous game. After a time, their blows begin to land heavier against each other and they start to move more intricately. Arthur feels energy pumping through his veins, his body alight with the fight, the battle, the honour of Camelot. He feels Merlin behind him at the edge of the field and draws on that sense he has of him, a sense of growing power, of certainty. And he fights. He rains blows down on Tristan, but Tristan parries them and more, surges forward against Arthur, fighting his own bitter battle. 

And then Arthur sees his chance. He raises his sword in his fist and smashes it down, knocking the sword out of Tristan’s hand and ripping his gauntlet from its buckle. The crowd rises as one, their cheer one solid wall of sound rending the air. Tristan falls under the strength of the blow, his hand still stretched out ahead of him where Arthur hit it. 

And there Arthur sees a lady’s token tied around Tristan’s wrist, tied in the secret place under his gauntlet. It bears the embroidery of Isolde.

The crowd is ecstatic with cheering, but the royal stand is silent. Mark staggers forward, leaning on the railing to get a closer look at Tristan’s wrist. Isolde has covered her mouth in shock, her eyes wide and fearful. Uther stands shocked, and Morgana looks from Mark to Isolde. She starts forward as if to go to the Queen, but Uther prevents her with an outstretched hand.

Tristan climbs to his knees in front of the royal stand. He tears off his other gauntlet and runs his fingers over the embroidered knotwork of Isolde’s token. He is unable to look at his King.

Mark’s face hardens. He turns his back on Tristan and leaves the royal stand, Isolde rising from her seat and following after.

The people jeer them as they leave, presuming Mark to be dishonoured by Tristan’s loss to their great champion, Prince Arthur. It is best let them believe that, thinks Arthur, as he looks to his father. Uther nods at him as if he has overheard the thought, and rises to make a speech to the jubilant people of Camelot.

  
_~8~_  


_“Alas,” said Sir Tristram, “I am this day shamed.” (Tristan, Book VIII, chap. xxxi)_

While the people celebrate, members of the court who had witnessed the revelation of Tristan and Isolde’s treachery retire to the Great Hall. King Mark stands in front of the high table awaiting Uther’s arrival, and Tristan and Isolde stand to one side, silently, their hands entwined as if, now that they have been discovered, they wish only to be together, no matter what else might befall them. Tristan still wears Isolde’s token. He looks defeated, crumpled. Isolde’s cheeks are tear-lined, though she stands a little straighter than her lover.

“My lord Uther,” says Mark, as Uther enters the great hall. Uther strides forward to meet him. “These are your lands and this is your stronghold,” says Mark. “It was here that Tristan and Isolde did dishonour me, so with your agreement, it is here I shall tell them their fate.”

Uther nods regally. “These are your people, my lord Mark,” he says. “It is for you to decree as you see fit. And whatever sentence you set down by the laws of Cornwall will also hold true in Camelot.”

Mark clasps Uther’s shoulder. “I thank you,” he says, before turning to face Tristan and Isolde. They stand up under his glare. Mark is in deadly control of his fury, and the court is utterly silent as they behold him. “Let all of Cornwall and Camelot know that treachery will not be accepted,” he says. His voice is as hard and deadly as steel. “Sir Tristan, once the finest knight of my company, you were as a son to me,” he says. “You are hereby banished from these lands. You will live without a lord or a home, and you will never come to Cornwall as long as I shall live.”

Tristan raises his eyes to accept his punishment. He holds Mark’s furious gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. “I will accept this banishment as just,” he says, his hand tightening on Isolde’s. “We will leave as soon as we gather our things.” He moves as if to leave the hall with Isolde.

“Wait,” says Mark. “I’m not finished.” He pauses, his eyes still stone cold. “Isolde, my Queen,” he says. “You will go to Tintagel, and there you will live out your days.”

Isolde looks stricken. “But my lord,” she says, her voice shaking. “Tintagel is in Cornwall.”

“Yes,” says Mark levelly.

Tristan and Isolde look at each other in dawning realisation of the implications of Mark’s sentence. “But my lord,” says Isolde. “Surely you don’t mean to—”

“I mean it exactly as I spoke it,” says Mark. “Are you questioning the judgement of your king?”

Isolde shakes her head. She looks aghast. Tristan is frozen as if he is afraid to move, as if another step, another breath, would render the punishment real. Isolde presses against him as if she can already feel the cold, empty years ahead of her and is hoarding the touch of her love while she still can.

Merlin watches as Morgana makes her way quietly to Uther. “Surely, if they are going to be held accountable together, then they can be banished together?” she whispers to him, her jaw set obstinately.

Uther shakes his head slowly. “This is a matter for King Mark,” he replies. “There is nothing we can do.”

“Nothing?” says Morgana. “But she had no choice in her own marriage, my lord,” she says. “Can she really be blamed for loving another?”

Uther looks at her. Merlin can see something in his eyes, something like regret, but can hardly believe it from the king. “There is nothing I can do,” he repeats. “But perhaps there is something you can do, Morgana,” says Uther, and he looks at her with a steady gaze.

“Anything,” she says, trustingly.

Uther turns to address Mark. “My lord Mark,” he says, stepping forward. “I offer you the services of Camelot in carrying out this sentence. If you so desire, the lady Morgana will attend Isolde in her journey to Tintagel, and Prince Arthur will escort Sir Tristan to the boundaries of Camelot, from where he may wander where he will.”

Mark inclines his head graciously. “I thank you for this, my lord Uther,” he says. “And I accept with gratitude.”

Uther nods his acknowledgement and glances at Arthur and Morgana. “You will both be ready tomorrow morning,” he says. They nod in assent. Uther calls for guards to escort Tristan and Isolde from the great hall. The Queen refuses their arms, but she can barely conduct herself from the hall, she is so overcome with grief, and so Morgana leaves with her, an arm around her waist to support her and hold her in her sorrow.

  
_~8~_  


Arthur watches them leave, dejected, disgraced, through the people of the court. Small groups gather as they go, some of the ladies reaching out to Isolde as she passes, and she turns to them gratefully to murmur her farewells. The knights, however, step back from Tristan, and Tristan does not look up to catch their eyes. Arthur watches until the doors to the hall are thrown open and the lovers are taken away.

Merlin comes to stand beside Arthur and nudges him a little with his arm. “Harsh,” he whispers.

“Perhaps,” replies Arthur quietly. “But not undeserved.”

Mark still looks furious. Uther places a hand on his shoulder. “Come,” says Uther in a low voice, not for the court to hear. “We will dine together.”

Mark nods grimly, and follows him out of the hall towards Uther’s chambers.

Once the kings have departed, groups begin to huddle together around the hall. Stragglers from the field are now coming in, the news spreading quickly through the newcomers. Arthur sees Gwen and Lancelot making their way through the courtiers until they reach the top table, where he and Merlin stand.

“What happened?” asks Gwen, her face drawn with concern.

Arthur grits his jaw grimly. “King Mark discovered Tristan and Isolde’s infidelity,” he tells her. “He has banished them.”

“Separately,” adds Merlin.

Gwen’s face falls in sympathy. “That’s awful,” she says.

“Very sad,” says Lancelot. “But to cuckold a king, that is a dishonourable thing.”

Arthur nods. “Indeed it is,” he agrees.

“But why did he have to banish them separately?” says Merlin, shaking his head. “Once it’s done, it’s done. It’s not like he can undo it by locking Isolde up in Tintagel and making sure Tristan never sees her again. That’s just miserable for everyone.”

“Because, Merlin,” says Arthur, “he is a king. Kings have to handle these things harshly. Send a message to their people that they will not stand for it.”

Gwen stares at him levelly. “They won’t stand for love?” she says, a slight note of challenge in her voice.

Arthur holds her gaze. “What kind of love is so treacherous and unfaithful?” he asks. “Love like this is hardly love at all.” 

At that, she tilts her head a little to the side and her eyes become soft and curious. It is a look makes Arthur feel that she has the measure of him, and that, against the odds, he has proven that in this at least she does not find him wanting. He is no longer surprised to realise how much her approval means to him.

“Anyway,” he says, drawing away from her gaze at last and looking around the hall, which is slowly emptying of people as they trickle away in twos or threes, heads still bent low together. “There’ll be no feast here tonight. Lancelot, you will be provided for. Perhaps Gwen can show you the way, if that’s alright with you, Gwen.”

Lancelot bows his head. “Thank you, my lord,” he replies. He smiles as he looks at Gwen.

“Of course,” she says. She blushes a little, endearingly.

“And Merlin,” says Arthur, looking around. “Come and help me with this armour.”

Merlin nods. “Alright,” he says.

Arthur looks at him askance. “That was an order, not a request,” he clarifies.

Merlin just shrugs and grins impossibly at him. It would really be infuriating, thinks Arthur, if it was anyone else.

 

_“Sir,” said Merlin, “I know all your heart every deal ; so ye will be sworn unto me, as ye be a true king anointed, to fulfil my desire, ye shall have your desire.” (Book I, chap. ii)_

The corridors are quiet, the bustle of previous days turned to something furtive and eerie, as the courts of Cornwall and Camelot take to their chambers to gossip and speculate behind closed doors. Servants run quietly to and fro, but with their heads down and their feet light on the flagstones, as if they are reluctant to be seen or heard in the tense atmosphere of the castle.

Arthur’s chamber, however, is quiet in a way altogether different. It is peaceful, and the fire is banked and emanating a steady, bone-deep heat. Arthur makes a note to commend the kitchens in the morning.

Arthur sighs as Merlin begins to unbuckle his vambrace. Though, over many years, his armour has become like a second skin, this evening it weighs on him, and he feels lighter and better without it. Merlin places it on the table and gingerly lifts off his chainmail.

“Should I go and clean this?” he asks.

“It will do in the morning,” says Arthur, and Merlin nods and drapes it over the back of a chair.

Then he looks at Arthur and smiles, a slow, sweet smile that Arthur feels strongly has no right to be quite so appealing. He finds that he has no choice but to place his hands gently on Merlin’s face and draw him in close for a kiss. Merlin leans into him, against him, pressing their bodies together, and Arthur sighs through the kiss at the feel of Merlin’s body against his own.

Merlin pulls back, his lips wet and his eyes full of promise. He nimbly removes Arthur’s tunic and is about to kiss him again when Arthur stops him. He looks Merlin in the eye. “Do you notice how quickly my bruises fade?” he asks, quietly. They are standing so close that his voice is little more than a murmur.

Merlin glances this way and that but cannot meet Arthur’s eyes. “Do they?” he says. “Must be Gaius’ salve.”

“But that’s the interesting thing,” replies Arthur. “I haven’t been using Gaius’ salve.”

Merlin looks at him eventually, his face carefully neutral. “Well, you should,” he says. “It’s very good.”

“Merlin,” says Arthur, taking Merlin’s hands in his and placing them on his shoulders, where his muscles ache from hefting a sword and a shield in long and arduous combat. “I need no salve when you’re here.” He covers Merlin’s hands with his own. “Do I?”

Merlin closes his eyes and presses his mouth shut, as if holding something back with great effort. “Arthur,” he says, his voice strained and taut.

Arthur leans forward and kisses him again, just a soft brush of lips. “It’s alright, Merlin,” he says. “Do you think I would let my father know? There has been enough heartbreak in Camelot today to last a lifetime.”

Merlin opens his eyes, and even though he thinks he is prepared for it this time, Arthur finds that he is not. Merlin’s irises, usually so blue, glow shockingly gold, and his face becomes ethereal with light and power. “ _Hælan_ ,” he says, and Arthur can feel it, the rush of power in the word and the power in Merlin’s hands pouring into him, seeping into his body. He can feel it like liquid light under his skin, spreading out from Merlin’s fingertips to bathe him in a pure, satin-soft sense of luminescence and bliss. This must be how clouds feel when the sun breaks through, he thinks deliriously. This must be— “Merlin!” he gasps, as it becomes too much, too much gold and light to bear. 

Merlin starts, his eyes fading suddenly once more to blue, and Arthur feels his muscles and bones and all his body healed under Merlin’s hands. He breathes out an amazed laugh. “That is fantastic,” he says. Merlin is looking at him warily, but all Arthur can do is grin and stretch out his arms and legs as if they were new again. He twists this way and that, feeling his shoulders loose and easy and his spine as smooth as butter. The bruises have faded entirely from his chest and arms. Even an old, familiar pull in his left knee has disappeared. “That is just fantastic.” He stretches his neck and examines his unbruised skin, grinning at Merlin. 

Merlin is still looking a little wary. “You’re alright with it?” he says, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Arthur laughs. “Alright with it?” he says. “Merlin, I think it’s brilliant.” He leans forward to kiss Merlin again. Things get a little blurred then, and soon Merlin has Arthur helped out of all of his clothes, and Arthur has returned the favour and tumbled him onto the bed.

Merlin closes the window drapes with a flick of his wrist, and Arthur already has him pinned to the sheets when the candles gutter and extinguish. Arthur dips his head with a groan and licks a line along the dip above Merlin’s collar bone. “All this time,” he says, his voice ragged. “You’ve been completely slacking off on your duties by using magic, haven’t you?”

Merlin grins. “The important thing is that things get done,” he says. “And I’ve also saved your life at least eleven times, so you can’t complain.” He shivers at the sensation of Arthur’s breath against his skin.

“I’m the prince, I can complain whenever I want,” replies Arthur, but he is too busy investigating Merlin’s jawline with his tongue to really put his heart into the exchange. He returns to Merlin’s mouth again, and Merlin inhales a ragged breath when Arthur kisses him deeply, pressing him down further into the mattress as their bodies align.

  
_~8~_  


Merlin feels the trace of Arthur’s fingertips over his skin, down his side and over his hipbone. He can feel Arthur’s cock swell against him, and his own cock grows heavy in response. He runs his hands over Arthur’s body, everywhere he can reach. Arthur is so solid and strong, so physically real and present, and he cannot drink him in enough. They learn each others bodies with their mouths and hands and skin, though it does not feel like something new, but rather it feels like returning home.

Arthur is gentle at first, kissing him tenderly, and Merlin feels his chest well up with something that might just burst through him if he does not get more, quickly, so he turns them over, holding Arthur down and kissing him with intent. Arthur groans in a way that makes him shudder. He kisses down Arthur’s chest, lips and tongue tasting the sweat blooming on Arthur’s skin. “Oh, Merlin—” says Arthur, brokenly, when Merlin aligns their cocks in his hand and begins to stroke. Merlin feels almost delirious, whether at the feel of Arthur’s body against his or the sound of Arthur’s voice saying his name, he does not know; both, he thinks distantly, as he suckles at Arthur’s neck, making him writhe beneath him.

And then, suddenly, it is Arthur once more on top, his eyes desperate and intent. “Do you have—” he says, and he does not even have to finish the question before Merlin is holding out his hand and saying “ele,” his eyes lighting up in the dim room, and he is holding out a small earthen jar of oil to Arthur.

Arthur looks at it quizzically. “You know, I don’t even want to know why you know that one,” he says, taking it and slicking up his fingers.

“I learned it once for the—oh—for the burner, when we—oh, yes—ran out,” says Merlin, while Arthur slides his fingers between Merlin’s legs.

“Mmm hmm,” murmurs Arthur disbelievingly, hitching one of Merlin’s legs over his thigh.

“’S true!” gasps Merlin, who thinks it is desperately unfair that Arthur is rendering him incapable of speech just when he feels he should defend himself against accusations of promiscuity, but a crook of Arthur’s finger and it is forgotten. He arches up and lets out a cry that makes Arthur gaze at him in wonder, so Merlin pants a little and nudges him to do it again, and Arthur obliges.

It isn’t long before Arthur is inside him, Merlin’s legs around his waist, digging in with his heels and urging him deeper and faster. Arthur acquiesces with a low kind of whimper, Merlin’s cock in his fist, oil slicking it up, and it seems to Merlin impossible that they should last long at all. He reaches desperately for Arthur’s mouth but they can do nothing as co-ordinated as kiss; instead they gasp into each others’ breath, whispering words of nothing and everything, until Merlin can no longer hold on and comes spectacularly all over Arthur’s fingers and stomach. Arthur glances down, gives a shocked sort of gasp, and all it takes is one, two more sharp and desperate thrusts before he follows Merlin over the edge, one last, deep groan as he comes, his body shuddering with aftershocks until he delicately pulls out and collapses all over Merlin.

“Fuck,” gasps Arthur, after some time, and Merlin thinks that sums it up pretty well. He feels utterly languid and boneless and a little sticky, and Arthur is still nestled between his legs. Arthur’s hair is deliciously tousled, and his skin glows with sweat and sex. 

Arthur laughs breathily against him. “There’s a lot to be said for sorcery, you know, no matter what my father thinks,” he says.

Merlin agrees, wrapping his arms around Arthur and holding him close. “I’m not sure I can do that every time, though,” he says, doubtfully. “It might upset the balance of, er, nature, or, you know, something.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” says Arthur, and he kisses Merlin again. “I don’t just want you for your magic, you know.”

Merlin lies still, gazing up into Arthur’s face, their bodies pressed together right down to their entangled legs and feet. “I know,” he says. “And I don’t just want you because you’re a prince either,” he adds. “Actually, I still think you’re a bit of a prat.”

Arthur grins. “And you’re still an idiot, no matter what you can do with your hands.”

Merlin wiggles his eyebrows. “You like what I do with my hands, do you?” he says.

Arthur plants his face into the pillow. “You see?” he says, longsufferingly. “Idiot. Why have I done this to myself?”

His protests fade away, however, as Merlin rolls him over in the bed and licks the sheen of sweat from the dip between his collarbones. “You love it,” he says, and although it remains unspoken, they both know what he means.

  
_~8~_  


__  
**Epilogue**  


_And at the last Sir Tristram took his horse and rode away from her. (Book IX, chap. xviii)_

The next morning is rather more cold and less magical as Merlin saddles up Arthur’s horse and his own to escort Tristan to the border of Camelot.

The weather has changed, and a thick, grey cloud has rolled in overhead. Arthur can smell rain on the air, and does not relish the long ride to the Mercian border and back. Tristan is wordless and pale, his face a mask of sorrow, and Arthur can hardly bear to look at him, so great is his grief.

On the other side of the courtyard, Morgana prepares for her journey with Isolde. The knight and the lady spend every moment they can looking at each other, as if memorising each other so that they may call to mind their last moments in the bleak years to come.

Mark stands by the castle steps with Uther, stern and forbidding. He says nothing as he watches the parties ride away. At the gates of the city, Arthur’s party turns north towards the border, and Morgana’s turns south towards Cornwall and Tintagel.

As if in sympathy, it begins to rain.

 

It is a long, miserable two-day trek to the border. The road to Mercia is not an easy one, since neither kingdom is entirely comfortable providing any inviting route to the other. They must pick their way along muddy paths and through dripping forests, over hills and valleys until they finally come within sight of the boundary of the realm.

Tristan does not react to the sight of the border. It is as if he has already resigned himself to his fate, and nothing now can engage him. He is already banished, thinks Arthur, since he went one way and Isolde went the other.

When they finally reach the river that marks the border, the party dismounts. Tristan leads his horse along the bank of the river, judging the shallowest spot to ford across to the other side. Arthur walks the bank with him, Merlin and the guards remaining distant.

“You are a good fighter,” he says to Tristan. “No doubt you’ll find some lord who will have you in his company, if you travel far enough.” 

Tristan glances at him. “What lord would have me now?” he asks. “I cuckolded my king. No court will have me.”

Arthur stops and faces Tristan. “You knew what you risked,” he says. “You knew the consequences.”

“I risked it because I love her,” replies Tristan. “I don’t regret a moment I spent with her. And you would do the same, for love.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he says. Arthur thinks of the look on Merlin’s face as woke up that morning beside him, deliciously languid and warm. He thinks of Gwen’s smile as he passed her in the corridor, and Lancelot’s salute as he left the courtyard of the castle. “Love is not treacherous and deceitful,” he says. “Love is honourable and honest and true. One day, perhaps, you will come to know that.”

Tristan looks him in the eye, gauging him. “Perhaps,” he says. “But I have many lonely years before that day, Highness, and so here I must bid you farewell.”

Arthur stands back. “Farewell,” he says, and he watches Tristan mount up and spur his horse forward across the river. He looks back once when he reaches the other side, but then he sets out, his horse and he rounding a bend beneath the trees, and Arthur can see him no more.

 

They ride back through the splendid reds and golds of the forest, the smell of moss and dark earth rising up from the woodland floor. Merlin is humming some tune to himself under his breath, and Arthur feels an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment, as if all is right with the world.

That feeling lasts until just after breakfast the next morning, by which point Merlin has hummed the same tune at least seventy three times, and Arthur feels he’s been more than patient, so he throws a piece of sodden bark at Merlin’s head. The ensuing squabble lasts until they reach Arthur's chamber in the castle.

That evening, as a sleepy Merlin nuzzles against him in the warm cocoon of his bed, Arthur reflects that, in general, and as inexplicable as it all still seems that he should feel like this with _Merlin_ , of all people, things seem to have worked out pretty well.


End file.
